


Disengage, Calibrate

by applejuice_motherfucker



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Complete, Depression, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, References to Suicide, Sadstuck, Self-Harm, Sibling Incest, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Triggers, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-13 10:49:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applejuice_motherfucker/pseuds/applejuice_motherfucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A boy falls for his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jack In

**Author's Note:**

> Using a setting I've seen a few times, with Dirk slightly older than Dave, and them living together with Bro.

You are euphoric. Glorious is your nest of scattered nuts and bolts, scrap metal from the junk yard across town gleaming as it lies in wait, reflecting the dying sun around the room in its newly polished façade. You have a pencil tucked behind one ear, a cigarette behind the other for later on when you’ve finally finished this months worth of work and can breathe easy. No more sleepless nights, no more midnight dashes to your drawing board when inspiration strikes you uselessly at five in the morning in between dreams.

God, this is good. This is great, this is the best thing ever. You’re already proud of it and it’s still not even finished. Even if your brothers were to disturb you and chew you out for the mess you’ve made (necessary mess, thank you) you wouldn’t care. If Bro calls it a piece of shit, what the fuck does he know? If Dave-

Your fingers falter, screwdriver thudding on the floor as it slips and you frown at your hand. God, bodies are so flawed. What’s the point of them if they glitch at every wince of the brain; you should be able to think and work at the same time, that’s the whole point. You suppose women may have it a little easier, multitasking wise and whatever. Your brain is both your best friend and your worst enemy; brilliant, of course, but traitorous when it chooses to be. Like right fucking now. You have half a mind to punch yourself in the head when it won’t shut up about meaningless, worthless, abominable thoughts.

You saw Dave exiting the shower this morning. Door open just a crack, his back to you, beat boxing a ridiculous rhythm he’ll never be able to remember, but you will. Rivulets pouring down his neck, half sweat half water, and he groaned when he rolled his neck and shoulders, working tense muscles a tad looser, towel slack and slipping from his little narrow hips. You managed to stop yourself after not too long, but its still risky. He still almost caught you. A thrill rushes at the thought, and you once again curse your damnable body for each stupid reaction it shivers through when you think about it.

The heat of midsummer has been slowly driving you all mad; three men trapped in a three room apartment, the air stale and sweltering every time you step outside. You’ve barely been up to the roof this past week. Only twice, in fact. Once to strife, when Bro actually felt up to it. Once to find a place to work in peace when your brothers were…otherwise engaged. And the volume level of music needed to cover up Dave’s voice would probably have burst your eardrums. You could still hear him on the roof. Nobody should sound that loud and gorgeous when they’re getting their ass kicked at Street Fighter

God fucking damnit, you hate working with an erection.

You huff, simultaneously turned on and off from your work, and you push the small metal husk back from you before standing up and stretching to the ceiling. Maybe you’ll have that cigarette now. Clear your thoughts, get your head back to where it should be. On robots. Not your little brother, and the sounds he makes when he’s getting his pride crushed to dust.

You leave the front door open; robbers won’t come, but a fresh breeze might, and you drag your feet up the stairs to the roof, kicking the stairwell door open as your lighter clicks and sparks. Jesus, its hot out here… You can see heat waves licking around every tower block on the horizon, glass and concrete lilting lazy and distant, the birds silent as they shelter from the sun where the can. Even the tarmac of the roof seems to be steaming, melting into messy swirling puddles when you stare at it for too long. You take a seat on the edge, the ground burning your ass through your jeans but its easy enough to ignore. The air is so still up here, and you blow little smoke rings as you watch the city beneath you. It’s calm. It’s just what you need, actually.

Your mind still swims mildly, fragments of memories and fantasies slipping past each other as you shake your head to clear it. The heat helps, burning away each thought until you feel lighter, a dozy smile tugging the corners of your lips, body swaying side to side. You flick your cigarette off the edge, into the throng of roads and cars and humans without thinking. It may or may not land on someone. You find yourself unable to really care.

There’s a special little place in hell waiting for you, you know this. People don’t just lust after their own brothers like you, it’s not natural. Human interaction is a thing, sure. It may not interest you that much, but its still a vital part of daily life. And you do interact with people, you’re very good with them in fact. You can hold polite, casual conversation with just about anyone, your interests are so varied that you can crack little inside jokes with acquaintances and laugh along with them, whether you mean it or not. It’s not that you don’t  _care_  about other people, it’s just that you don’t care about them caring about you.

They hold no value for you, nobody would ever be able to ‘get’ you, whatever that means. You’re a fairly individualistic type of guy, your whole family is, for Christ’s sake. Your all weird in your own ways, and, if high school taught you anything, it’s that weirdos stick together.

That being said, that robot isn’t going to construct and program itself. Your shoes scuff on the ground as you stand, your back popping, and your shoulders are starting to ache a little. Perhaps you’ll go for a run tonight, once the sun disappears and the city starts to wake up, and the notion has you bouncing on your feet as you flit down the stairs. A quick check around the apartment clears the ever nagging worry of burglars, but, as ever, it’s empty. Your robot is looking a little lonely on the dance floor, though. Needs a pick me up, stat.

It’s only half completed, but the finishing line is in sight, and your smile swells with pride as its little blue eyes light up when you plug it in to charge. This thing is your golden ticket; if the prototype is picked up and sold for mass production that’s it, you’re outta here. Maybe you’ll go to Hollywood, visit your brother. Maybe Tokyo. Maybe Rio. Maybe you’ll take Dave with you once he’s out of school.

Jesus, there go your fucking hands again, fucking up at the slightest slip, god damn human bodies. You hate how they shake and weaken, how your heart thrills and your stomach tightens with something like anxiety only sweeter, and it feels good, sure. It feels really nice, but for once just let a guy damn well work!

You grumble a stream of grumps and gripes, snatching at your screwdriver again as the front door slams, making you look up, waiting to see who waltzes into the living room to disturb you.

“Yo,” a voice calls from the hallway, the sound of a board settling against the wall. It’s Dave, back from the park, or the ice cream place or wherever the hell people go when the sun if trying to murder them. You grunt a response, slipping a couple of screws in your mouth to make you look cool before he enters.

“Sup- woah. Bro’s gonna kill you, dude,” he says, taking a step back when he reaches the doorway, staring at the clusters of metal and wires and empty soda bottles littering the room around you.

“That the first thing you have to say?” You grunt around the metal in your mouth. “You tell on me, you’re dead.” He takes a few steps closer, peeking around your hands to see what you’re working on and you stop, sit back and look up to see his reaction, spitting the screws out since he’s already seen them.

“What is it?” His cheeks are flushed from the sun, and he sounds tired out, a little woozy perhaps. Maybe a touch of heat stroke, but only time will tell with that so you let it go for now. He’s interested in what you’re doing, which is cool. He usually lets you get on with it, and maybe its the sun damage making him ask but you want to answer him anyway.

“It’s a battery,” you say, and he wrinkles his nose a little, pushing his shades up to the top of his head, and you suppress your little giggle at the fact the skin around his eyes is paler than the rest of his reddened face. “It’s a mobile charger. It’s small and light and has nearly every kind of port, from USB to HDMI, two types of electrical socket. Holds about six hours worth of power, if its fully charged. Plus, it looks like a little bunny rabbit.” You hold the thing up, careful of the wires attaching it to your extended power chord.

“Why.” He doesn’t even say it like a question, and you roll your eyes.

“Why not.”

“’Cause that’s gay?”

“Wow, okay, I may have a newsflash for you.” You smile when he waves a hand at you, watch him as he shuffles towards the kitchen, kicking his shoes into a corner as he goes. “Where’s Bro at, anyhow?” You don’t really care, but a little warning of when he might show up and get in your way would he fantastic. Dave shrugs, fumbling with his apple juice a little as the top refuses to twist.

“Beats me. Think he said he’d be out late, though.” You unfold your legs, walking over to him and taking the bottle from his hands because he honestly looks pathetic, and he tips back, leaning heavy against the counter behind him, grateful when you hand it over. “What’re you doin’ tonight?”

You’re caught off guard by his interest, making your way back over to your project so he doesn’t see the surprise in your face. You shrug, settling back down on the floor, pulling your blueprint a little closer and pretending to read it. He’s kept his eyes on you, you can feel it, his shades clattering soft against the counter when he removes them and starts walking over to you.

“I dunno,” you say, shrugging again, reluctant to answer for whatever reason. Maybe you think if you suggest you do something together he’ll reject you. Maybe you want him to think you’re too cool to hang out with him. You honestly don’t know which one you hate less. “Be workin’ on this for a while, I guess, but I got no plans. What about you?” You glance up, he’s chewing his lip, watching the little half formed lump of shining silver and twinkling blue in your hands. He stares for a moment, crouching down, and you’re distantly aware of his open bottle so close to your extension cable, but he’s careful with it. He’s silent, watching your hands, making you feel more self-conscious than he should be. He’s not judging you, he’d never do that, it’s not the kind of person he is, but it still feels that way, and you want to impress him. You want him to look up to you. Your hand shakes but you mask it with a cough, and it seems to wake him up from whatever stupor he set himself into. He blinks, looking up and into your eyes, able to see right past your shades, right into you.

“You wanna do movie and pizza with me?” He asks flatly, smiling a little when he finishes, as if to try and convince you. As if you need convincing in the first place.

“Sure,” you smile back, placing the thing on the floor, wiping absently at your pants. “What movie-”

“I’m the movie. You do pizza, you suck at movies,” he grumbles, straightening up as he trudges out to your bedroom to change. He’s right, you do suck at movies. Pizza, however, is easy. Or at least it would be if you could find your damn phone…

An hour later sees you sweaty and uncomfortable on the couch, a leg tucked under you, the other stretched to the coffee table, and Dave is a whining mess, fanning himself with a pizza flyer, breathing hard like he’s in having fucking contractions. The little shit chose Finding fucking Nemo of all things, but neither of you are really watching it, too busy digesting and despising yourself. He extends his leg, resting a foot in your lap as he slowly dissolves back against the armrest, groaning and rubbing his stomach in the stupidest plea for attention you’ve ever seen.

“Jesus Christ, you suck…” you mumble, dropping your hand from the back of the couch to rest on his ankle anyway, showing support in your own way. This entire venture has been an ever rotating knife of guilt stabbed right in your gut, starting from when he returned from your room wearing one of your old wifebeaters. You would have complained, told him not to touch your stuff, said things normal brothers bitch about, but you didn’t. You liked seeing him in it. He suits it. It’s loose on him, a strap nearly always slipping down because your shoulders are broader than his, a fact you can’t resist rubbing in his face every so often to get him worked up.

“You suck,” he groans, rocking himself gently and pouting pitiably at you, using every trick in the god damn book to make you feel sorry for him, and for whatever twisted reason, it’s working. Maybe its the heat, you just don’t know.

“Maybe you should take a cold shower,” you suggest, your traitorous hand absently rubbing at the back of his foot, his toes wiggling a little in appreciation, making you catch yourself and stop immediately. He frowns, kicking gently to make you start again because he doesn’t know what he’s doing to you, and you do it, bringing your other hand down to press against his sole.

“Don’t wanna,” he grumbles, dropping his arm and his makeshift fan to the floor, huffing out a huge sigh when you rub your knuckles against the ball of his foot. You decide to focus, noting every movement of your fingers, concentrating on what they’re doing and not the effect they’re having on the both of you. His heel is digging into your thigh, dangerously close to your dick; now is not the time to fucking lose yourself.

“If you ain’t gonna do anything about it, don’t sit there and feel sorry for yourself,” you tell him, dragging your thumb hard across his arch, and he shifts, turning a little to watch you. You can see where the sleeve of his t-shirt ended on his arm, the skin below the line glowing faintly redder than his shoulder. He smiles.

“Your hair looks cool today,” he says quietly. Maybe its a bribe. He might be buttering you up for a favour. Maybe he’s just that whacked that he truly feels like giving you a compliment. Maybe he’s just trying to change the subject. You raise an eyebrow, glancing over at him as he smirks at you, an arm tucked behind his head. You pinch his pinky toe, hard, and he winces, kicking back at your hand.

“It always looks cool,” you reply as casually as you can, settling yourself back a little more and trying to ignore the tension you feel building inside you. Focus, focus, focus. He likes when you spread his toes apart, it makes him groan and arch his back a tiny bit, his heel pressing against your leg that little bit harder.  _Focus_.

He makes a little murmur of a noise, pretending to disagree with you and you smack gently at his leg, trying not to match his smile when he laughs. You want to push his foot aside, turn and crawl up his body, cover it with your own as you kiss him, feel him wrap himself around you as you press down into him, feel the drag of his legs at your sides, leave no part of him untouched or neglected. He’d be soft beneath you, warm and dazed from the sun and the air, responsive and open against your mouth, twist his fingers in your hair as you tuck your arms under his shoulders and hold him to you, let you lick slowly across his lips, breathe deep and relaxed and-

_Focus, Jesus shit, fucking focus!_

Your hands freeze when you startle yourself back to reality, and he whines soft in his throat, his eyes having slid shut while you were distracted, a small crease between his brows smoothing when you pick up his foot again and continue on your path of self destruction.

“It’s too damn hot,” he murmurs. He’s right. The sun has fully set, the sky black and orange from light pollution, but the heat remains. It’s seeped into every crease and sliver of every building and pavement, every surface, rising still and eating away at you, the dark air making you sweat and shiver. You want to tear your skin off, jump into a vat of ice. Bro’s still out. At this point you doubt he’ll return until tomorrow.

“So take a shower,” you say softly, your voice betraying you as it breaks ever so gently, your fingers twitching in kind, your nerves shot to shit, your mind janked and jumbled. He moves, pulling his foot from your fingers only to replace it with the other. You look at him as he opens his eyes.

“You mind?” he asks, arrogant as he is deplorable. You narrow your eyes.

“Do you?”

“Not really,” he grins, wide and toothy. You want to kiss him. You really, really want to kiss him right now.

“If you don’t take a shower, I’m gonna,” and you make to move, to push him away and purge yourself, wash each vile, dirty, beautiful stain he’s left on your psyche. He frowns, bottom lip sticking out ridiculously.

“Don’t leave me hangin’, I feel all lopsided, man,” he whines, reaching out at you as he tries to sit up. You can’t, you honestly fucking can’t. He’s too dangerous to be around, every move he makes and word he says is a weapon and you can feel your resolve weakening with each friendly gesture between you. You find yourself sinking back down, stroking along his foot before lifting it higher in your lap, and he smiles, thankful and genuine, and you’re sure you’ll be dead before the night is through. You’ve backed yourself into a corner and there’s nothing in here to fight for you except your logical mind and your flawless existential narcissism, and neither seems to be working particularly well for you at the moment.

He’s content and comfortable, melted into the cushions like a fucking French girl, legs disappearing up into those dumbass basketball shorts he got when he was thirteen and thought Michael Jordan was the sickest shit. You’ve wanted to burn them on more than one occasion, this one being the worst by far. If you slid a hand up his leg, up his thigh, what would he do? What would  _you_  do? If he let you, would you continue on, stroke and trace every part of him, part his lips with your tongue as your hands slid slow across every curve and angle, map him out from head to toe? What kind of fucking question is that, of course you would. You’d let him lie immobile, undisturbed as you explored him, find which parts he likes to have kissed, where to press to make his fingers curl and his eyes close with a breath.

You’re only hurting yourself, you realise. He’s the sweetest scar you could ever have, the pain would be so worth the reward. Would he let you have him? Would he say your name? Wrap his arms around you as you said his?

You’re broken. You’ve slumped forward, hunched over his foot as he lies back, eyes closed, relaxed and oblivious. Your fingers stroke lighter, caressing him now, simply touching for your own gain, not working for his. The irony is not lost on you. Worshipping at your brothers feet, placing him on a pedestal where you can never reach. You can only blame yourself; it’s not his fault you’re so inept and fucked up and sick. Sick enough to contemplate leaning up to kiss him now as he dozes, or perhaps swapping his pillow for yours so you can breathe in the subtle difference in your scents as you pretend to sleep, his bed only five feet away from your own. The idea riddles you with a squirming pleasure that starts in your stomach and spreads out to your toes and fingers, an addled excitement that twists and shocks you as much as you hate it.

You push yourself up, sinking back against the couch, hands resting on his foot in your lap. He stirs, opening his eyes, hazy and clouded, blinking sleepily as you sigh and try to compose yourself.

You could do it, you think. You could do it so easily, just sit up, lean over, brace your arm by his head and press a kiss to his lips. It would be over before he even realised. Perhaps he would think he imagined it. Perhaps it would plant a seed, make him think of you more often, make him wonder about you. He would watch you behind your back like you do to him, wait by the door as you shower and change, clasp a hand to his mouth so you don’t hear him breathing. Lie on your bed when you’re out, press his face against your sheets and imagine you beneath him. Make himself sick with guilt every time he touches himself to the thought of you, picturing you naked and panting, wondering which parts of you would taste the sweetest.

You want to. You want him to see the hell you live in, for him to hate himself as much as you love him. The thought makes you queasy, your shoulders shaking under the weight of wanting him to feel the pain you put yourself through. You’re not right. Shame and desolation are all you have left. Your throat closes around each breath, desperate for an excuse to cry and curse and break, but it won’t. It’s not who you are. He moves, foot pulled from your grasp. You’re cold in a hot, hot room.

He sits up, crossing his legs under himself, leaning over, and the hand that rests light on your shoulder burns you more than the sun ever could.

“It’ll be okay,” he says. You shake your head. He has no idea what he’s dealing with.

“Yeah,” you reply.


	2. Cages

There is a man who lives in the block across the street from you. Older, rotund, hellishly Texan in his aesthetics. Bad moustache, bad hair, face like a sun-dried fucking tomato; he’s the worst kind of walking stereotype. Every day he sits in a chair, right by his open window, two floors below where you are. The chair is nice; plush and comfortable, but worn from time and misuse, edges fraying and stuffing slopping out around his bulbous form. The man sits in this chair for fifteen hours a god damn day, watching tv and eating enough sugar to kill a bus load of diabetics. He barely moves, only to swat at flies when they disrupt him, or scratch at his balls through his aged boxers. You loathe this man with a burning fucking passion.

The reason you hate the man across the street so much is your own fault, you suppose. You’ve done nothing but watch him for almost a week; glaring through your bedroom window, despising every move he makes, when he picks his teeth after his third fucking bag of Doritos, when he laughs at something not even funny on the tv you can’t see. Bile spits like lava in your gut, burning in your throat every time he opens his disgusting mouth to shovel in another days worth of food in one greasy bite. You can feel your eyes widening when he slurps at his fifth can of fucking Monster. You can see the detail on his bogus sovereign ring, it catches the light of the sun, winks at you like it knows you’re there, seething at him across the road. He’s vile, wretched, insignificant. He’s everything that’s wrong with the world.

Perhaps you’re projecting.

The interview for the prototype pick-up hadn’t gone as you’d hoped. They’d loved your technical skill, praised the programming and were impressed you’d managed to devise your algorithms so succinctly. They had also asked you to waive any design rights. That fucking bunny was yours, and they seemed damned insistent on changing that. The meeting had ended with you flipping them off and stealing a box of churros from the reception area. Bro had tried to high five you when you got back in the car. You had shoved the box at him and you haven’t spoken since. That was five days ago.

He’s tried, he really has. They both have, in their own ways. Bro throws things at you, asks if you want to join him in whatever he’s doing because he can’t connect unless he’s got the upper hand in any kind of situation. You’ve watched six episodes of My Little Pony with him to get him off your back. It didn’t work, per se, but at least he’s not barging in on you with stupid little robot parts he’s picked up from god knows where any more. He’s worried, you can tell. You just don’t know if you could handle baring your soul to him. He might freak out. He might fucking understand. Both would be completely unacceptable.

Dave, on the other hand… Dave has been quiet. Which is always worrisome because any chance the kid usually gets to talk is grasped with both hands and sometimes feet and teeth. From the day he learned his first word, the boy hasn’t stopped. It’s usually a mild annoyance, sometimes grating if you aren’t in the mood for his horse shit, sometimes endearing. Sometimes you think you could listen to him prattle on forever. Sometimes it just makes you love him that much more. Not now, though.

Now he sits, still and soundless, walks on eggshells around you, like he thinks it’s his fault. In a way it is. God, it would be so easy to shift the blame onto him… You could twist your guilt into vindication, glare at him as he passes, silently dare him to draw attention to himself. You would be free, justified. It would be so damn easy. Blame the victim. He shouldn’t have lead you on. He was asking for it.

And that, prime fucking example; that is why you utterly loathe yourself. You can’t deal. You’ve drilled yourself into a pathetic little shame hole and you want to make it everyone else’s problem. You’re alone in this, you know you are. Usually you don’t mind solitude, but this is fucking ridiculous.

He is a bow string in the corner of the room, the pressure around your head insurmountable when you glance over at him. You want to speak, say something, even just a random word, anything to relieve his tension. He’s feeling guilty because you’re feeling guilty because you want him, it’s a jolly old carousel and you feel sick as fucking hell.

“Pygmy goats,” you say. Your voice cracks. He starts, head whipping around to stare at you, fingers white as sheets as they grip the edge of the desk, a thick line scored through his crappy comic on the screen from his surprise.

“Come again?” Smart asshole.

“I wanted to say something for the first time in days. It was either pygmy goats or horse dicks, I didn’t know which you’d prefer. I went safe with it just in case.” You keep your face impassive as you reply. You hope you’re not creeping him out.

After a moment he turns fully, dropping his tablet pen, spinning the computer chair in his best/worst impression of a Bond villain, even going so far as to steeple his fingers beneath his chin. He scrutinizes you, eyes sweeping across your waxy face, your tangled, unkempt hair, your slouched shoulders, your old ratty pyjama pants that are stained with spaghetti sauce from years ago. You’re a mess, you know this. For a second you wish that you’d washed up a little before you spoke; walking disaster cannot be a good look for you.

“You’re right. I do prefer goats to horses,” he says, “not so sure about the dicks. Or pygmies.” Boom, nailed it. You try to quash the swell of pride that blooms inside you. Now is not the time to get big headed about something so pointless as simply speaking. You’re out of words anyway, you can’t follow up. You didn’t plan ahead. You hate when you do that. He watches you for a little while, keeping his eyes steady as you shrink and shrivel, drawing your knees up to wrap your arms around yourself, tucking your chin down against your chest.

“So,” he says, and you get a little rush of warmth that breezes along your arms and fingers, “you wanna go to the zoo?”

You go to the zoo.

It’s not uncomfortable, it’s…well, pretty uncomfortable, yeah, fuck it, yeah. For you, at least. There are so many people, too many. Surely there can’t be this many fucking people in Houston, Jesus Christ. Shitty children screaming, mothers knocking people with strollers, fathers guffawing as they hold the shitty children up to point and scream into the faces of toucans and lemurs. Asshole normal people on dates. Real dates. With people they aren’t related to. It almost doesn’t seem worth it; you feel exposed, prolonged isolation has dulled your awareness, sharpened your hatred into needles. You can feel every single one of your fears brimming just beneath the surface. If you are touched you’ll fracture, and they’ll spill out, consume you entirely. Fuck uncomfortable, this is surely hell on earth.

Dave, on the other hand, is on top of the world. He even smiles at one point, absent and deranged as he stares down into the lions den. You’d kiss him if you could. Clutch at his jaw, his cheeks, sink your lips to his as you press him solid against the hard plastic of the pen. His grin would fade, slow and amused beneath you, fizzling off as he kisses back, your fingers twitching tighter as he places his hands on your hips, strokes up your back- fuck! You’re in public, you can’t. Also, brother, bad. No. Don’t kiss brother. Especially not in public. Bad, no, bad!

“You look unimpressed,” he states later on, lounging back in a chair three times the size of him, ice cream dripping off his hand. The tiger carved into the wooden panel beside you is intimidating, glaring at you like it can see into your head. You’ve cleaned yourself up, thank the lord, your hair feeling stiff in the breeze since you haven’t styled it in days, but you still feel dirty. Your skin crawls, your blood thick as syrup, fuzzing your head over and screwing with your brain. The heat might be getting to you. You drink another gulp of your soda, sweet and fizzing against your tongue, ice melted and clicking feebly in the glass.

“I’m thrilled as hell,” you answer, voice straining through the sugar in your throat. He smiles a little wider and your lungs itch for nicotine. He licks at a vanilla strip as it trickles down his arm, killing you inside, his skin pinking in the sun, aviators reflecting you and the table keeping you from him.

You think you could make him happy if he let you.

“Animals in cages put me on edge,” you admit a little later on, stuffing your hands in your pockets as your shoes scuff against the dusty ground, making your way over to the koala enclosure. His glee fades from his face. He slows to a stop, letting you pass before you pause and turn to look at him. “Problem?”

“Yeah, just…” he starts, shrugging, glancing over to a sign post uselessly. He looks lost, he’s slipping through your grasp like sand. You need to stabilise him, fast. He’s trying so hard to cheer you up, put a smile back on your face in his own way. It’s not his fault, you couldn’t blame him if you wanted to. It’s almost as if you want to protect him from yourself, cage him off in a box and let him breathe for a while. He might not know what you’re thinking or feeling, and the fact he’s trying to is pain enough, but if you were to show him just how much it hurts to be near him he would break. He’s strong, amazingly so, and you commend him on that, but if he were to see inside your head for even just a second his soul would crack and snap, splinter off just like yours, leave damaged little traces all over his face when he thinks and feels and lives.

“Koalas, man,” you remind him, holding your arms out wide, grinning a little even though you don’t feel it. He breathes deep and smiles. If he thinks you’re okay, you must be. Even if you can’t fool yourself, you can fool him, and your hand itches for his as he matches your step evenly when you continue on.

He’s not an idiot. He’ll figure it out eventually. He’ll leave you. He’ll run.

You push each shrewish little thought away, hugging your arms closer around yourself in the open space, sunlight filtering through eucalyptus leaves, spotting his face and arms with little striped silhouettes. They glitter around his shades, mark his hair and yield precious little relief from the temperature.

“That one looks like Bro,” he says passively, pointing to a lazy motherfucker over in the corner, stoned to shit as it idly chews and stares right back at him. You can almost imagine it flipping him off, and you smile. There’s one dangling from a branch near the back, reaching haphazardly for a little fan of leaves, one eye drooping closed as it tries to stay awake.

“That one looks like you,” you tell him, leaning in a little closer to lower your voice, pointing to the creature with folded arms. He pushes you away, snorting lightly as he walks on and you follow.

“More like you,” he retorts.

“Witty,” you say.

“I’m serious,” he says. You feel your smile slip. “You’ve done nothing for weeks now. It sucks.”

“I know.”

“I know you know.”

“I know you know I know.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Your smile climbs back up.

You sift through the gift shop at the exit, the both of you trying on stupid hats and flicking pencil sharpeners at each other. You leave with a gorilla mask for Bro and a box of candy each, and he’s silent but content beside you on the bus ride home. The heat is toxic; you can feel your brain frying as you kick back, your foot resting on the back of the seat in front of you, and he slips down, slumping as he reads the back of the packet, popping a bubble around his tongue as he chews. You want to pull at the gum in his mouth with your teeth, draw it out like a string between you, spit it out and replace it with your lips.

“Movie?” you ask instead. He looks up at you, slow and lazy, sweat sticking his hair to the sides of his face. “Not Finding fucking Nemo,” you warn, and he frowns.

“It’s a classic,” he says.

“It’s shit,” you reply, and he makes a face as he looks away from you out the window.

His elbow is pressing softly against your side, the jiggle of his leg pushing him closer and closer into you. It’s a risky move, and you’re hesitant to make it, but you stretch out, pulling the ol’ phony yawn trick on him, your arm settling along the back of his seat. Christ, what the fuck are you doing? You’re on public fucking transport, putting outdated moves on your younger brother, are you fucking serious right now? Your other hand is restless in your lap, fingers flicking at the lid of your box of crackers and he sighs, turning back towards you, doesn’t even bat an eye at your arm behind his head.

“Pearl Harbor?” he suggests, a sluggish little grin spreading on his face when you look at him and cock an eyebrow.

 

“Are you fucking with me?” you ask, voice flat as he laughs around his bubblegum. You can smell it when he speaks, sugar sweet and fruity, and he slaps a hand on your leg.

“We could Mystery Science Theater that shit. Get crazy with it. Shed a patriotic tear at Ben Affleck’s good name going down with the kamikazes and crash burning in a wave of disappointment.” He grins, trying to drop his face back to a deadpan demeanour and failing miserably. He’s excited, happy to have you back perhaps. Whatever that means. You’re not back. You’re fucking dead inside.

“Ben Affleck doesn’t have a good name,” you counter.

“Not any more. The Japanese took it from him when they tried to take our freedom,” he half laughs.

“Oh my god,” you murmur, hiding your involuntary smile with a scratch of your nose. “Fine, you’ve got me.”

You refuse to admit that his little celebratory snap is cute as hell.

Bro is passed out on the couch when you return, one leg buried beneath a small pile of recently sewn smuppets, box ready and waiting to be shipped. You are silent, stealthy as you break out your katana and hold it up, chucking his present at his head. His steel clashes with yours the instant his eyes snap open, across the room and shoving you back against the wall in a flash.

“God fuckin’ damn, son.” His voice is gruff, lousy with sleep, his accent thick on his tongue. He blinks hard, clearing his eyes even as he holds you hostage still, apparently forgetting that his blade is pressing against your throat. “Where’s the kid at?” he grunts, twisting his sword away from you in a way that looks so effortlessly fucking cool you actually hate him for it for a moment. If Dave saw you doing that he’d flip his shit so hard. He’d ask you to teach him. Shit, you’ve got to learn that move…

“Bedroom. We’re gonna watch a movie unless you wanna join,” you say, walking to the kitchen, a hand at your neck to check for stray nicks or cuts. He groans, stripping his shirt off and kicking a box of nun-chucks out of the way as he shakes himself awake. Watching him come to life is quite a remarkable thing, you suppose. He acts like something out of a shitty horror movie, some kind of savage creature that can’t comprehend humanity and basic things like walking or talking at a normal volume or Xbox controllers.

“Workin’” he grumbles, picking his shades up from where they’ve fallen to the floor and jamming them on his face. “Christ, why’s it still so god damn hot!” He hollers, voice rising on every word, fists slamming on the windowsill, causing the crows to screech and soar, flapping off when they’re disturbed.

“’Cause its Texas in the middle of summer? Just a guess,” you say, an arm trapped behind a sword as you reach blindly for a bottle buried at the bottom of the refrigerator.

“It’s fuckin’ six pm, bitch. Don’t get smart, I ain’t in the mood,” he growls, throwing himself face down on the couch, crushing the mask you bought beneath him with a crinkling snap. “Sorry.”

“Whatever,” you reply, leaving him to stew in his guilt and frustration, soda sour in your stomach as you slump down the hall to your room. This is a terrible idea. Nothing good will come of this, a complete act of negligence. You’re walking right into your own trap, set by you, baited by you, snapped and twisted and gutted by you. You’ll be lucky if you make an hour. If you can just keep to yourself then-

Dave is on your bed.

“What-”

“Views better here,” he says, shades pushed up to his head, staring straight up at the ceiling through his camera lens. “What’s Bro screamin’ about?”

“Nothing, hey what about you sit in that chair there?”

“What about shut up, there’s room for both of us. Your bed’s, like, a fucking ocean liner compared to mine, it’s bullshit.”

“They’re the same size, retard,” you chide, tossing your shades aside as well, half considering a change of shirt, half feeling horrendously self-conscious.

“Don’t call me retard. Also, Pearl Harbors off. Can’t find a decent link and like shit I’m payin’ for it,” he announces, and you decide to dig through your wardrobe to avoid blatantly staring at him. He looks too comfortable on your bed, he looks like he belongs in it. He looks like he sleeps in it every night.

“And I was so pumped, too.”

“Right? But, alas, bad things happen to good people. Just like in Pearl Harbor,” he sighs, camera clicking as he takes crappy, pseudo-artistic shots at absolutely nothing.

“Where’re you gettin’ this shit from,” you grumble, tugging your shirt up your back and flinging it over your shoulder. You hear the camera click, and you pause as you fiddle with your clean wifebeater to look over to him slowly. He’s aiming it right at you, watching you through the view, bringing his knees up to shield himself as it clicks again. “That’s rude as hell, you know,” you say. He makes a face.

“Depends on your definition of rude. Or hell. Or whatever,” he replies, and you tug your shirt on as quickly and casually as you can manage. A click. You walk over to pick up your soda bottle. A click. Glance over at him. Click. Walk towards him. Click. Reach for the fucking abominable thing. Click.

“Dave, c’mon,” you say, releasing a sigh that drips with lethargy, and he smiles up at you, handing it over easily.

“Camera loves you, baby,” he says, your blood freezing to ice as you place it on his bed. Your hand shakes. It’s a common occurrence as of late, and you hate how you’re so used to it betraying you now. You relax your face, breathing deep and quiet so as not to alert him. He’s watching you when you turn, popping a bubble as you start to walk over, picking up your laptop on the way.

“Somehow I doubt that.” Your voice doesn’t shake, which is nice. You just need to play it cool. Play up to the ridiculous notion that you feel unattractive, as if that’s what this is about in any way. Maybe you might even get a compliment out of it.

“Sure it does. Not as much as me, of course, but y’know. Can’t win ‘em all.” You don’t ask for clarification. It’s either meant as a sick burn or brotherly affection, and you highly doubt it’s the one you want. Either way it hurts. And you are fucking pathetic. “You wanna watch Starsky and Hutch?” Ah, he’s pulled out his trump card, his special film. In a way it makes you happy that he wants to watch it with you, means he wants to stay, to hang out and talk shit about a dumb movie that doesn’t even make any sense, that he finds glorious and inspiring. Plus Snoop. You weigh your options. Eh, fuck it.

You frown at him, make a face as you pretend to consider it, and he fidgets with the corner of your pillow absently. It’ll smell of him now, just faintly. Your sheets too. If it were winter you’d suggest he get under the covers and make himself at home, but as it stands you only have one thin blanket tangled around at the side where it slips down against the wall. It’s not winter, and the harsh, hot breeze that blasts you as you pass the window is proof of it. You sigh.

“I’m in it for the dee-oh-double-gee,” you say blankly, and he grins brilliantly wide, bumping your fist as he springs up to rifle through his mess of a desk to find the disk. He slips, sock gliding along the floor, trips over a pile of laundry you are both refusing to claim ownership of even though most of it is yours. You settle back on your bed, flipping your lap top open and glaring at your start up screen to distract your eyes, forcing them away from him as he knocks down a tower of CD cases and swears loudly, stubbing his toe in the process. He unleashes a torrid tsunami of expletives, though his fingers are delicate as he leafs through discarded comics and magazines. There’s a drop of sweat trickling down the back of his neck. It disappears beneath the collar of his shirt and you want to rip it off him, clean him with your tongue, press him back against the wall and suck little bruises to his chest, his ribs, dance your fingers low across his stomach to make him that much hotter and sweat even more and-

God damn, asshole fucking eyes! You glare at your laptop, wanting to slap yourself for losing control of your own body yet again. You open a blank notepad document and scribble down a few lines of memorised code from your last failed project, before the bunny incident, an alarm clock of sorts. One that literally punched you with a faux boxing glove if you overslept. It was cool, Dave had loved it. Potential investors and their team of Health and Safety douchebags? Not so much. Good, this is good. You’re focused, paying attention to something that matters, or, well, mattered. Not on how Dave releases a vicious little laugh in triumph, swatting shit away from his hard drive to punch the DVD in.

“Get ready for a rollercoaster, dude,” he says, gleeful, giddy almost, stretching his arms to the ceiling as he twists at his waist to look at you. You keep your eyes firmly on the screen, and you fuck up a line of script but it’s good, this is good! You force yourself to roll your eyes at him, however, calling out as he leaves for the kitchen.

“I’ve already ridden it, like, five god damn times!” you shout, smiling despite yourself at his laugh that you hear floating down the hall. You hear the door slam, then Bro’s voice grousing about something or other while Dave humours him and grouses back. You look over your shoulder towards the window. The man across the street is sitting strong, a fist full of cake and a family history full of medical bills. You mouth a few choice curses his way, whipping your head back to your computer as Dave traipses back in, a decapitated smuppet in one hand, fresh apple juice in the other.

“Bro’s being a total dick today,” he mutters, smuppet raining cotton stuffing as it sails through the air and out the window.

“He’s always a dick,” you counter, shifting over to make space for him, crossing your heart, watching him move across the room from the corner of your eye.

“He’s being a huge dick though. He’s being as big of one as what he has. Of one. Uh…”

“That was a really weird thing to say.” Hahahahaha! Yeah, oh god, wow! Yeah, sure, make fucking fun of your brother for thinking about his brothers dick! Yeah, you are neither pot nor kettle, are you! Fucking Christ, what a jovial little jester you are!

He tells you to shut up, and he sits, wiggling back before he settles, then leaning up and twisting, rearranging your pillows to suit. His jeans rub against yours, friction heated just for a moment, sparkling up your leg like electricity, and you manage to stop yourself from jerking away. You centre yourself, clear your mind, inhale like the waves on the shore, calm, Zen, following a mental guide as you count yourself down. It doesn’t necessarily work, but Bro has taught you some breathing exercises over the years, and while mainly worthless garbage, they manage to bring a degree of peace. Dave is warm at your side, squinting at his computer screen when the light hits it and blinds him, masking poor old Ben Stiller’s face.

“Swap places with me,” he says, nudging you in the ribs, and you nudge back.

“It’s no better where I am, trust me. Just move the monitor,” you reply, tapping out nonsense code that he won’t realize makes no sense. It’s nothing but a distraction for your hands now, keeping them safely in place, away from him. He’s so close, and he sighs, slumping back and into you, his shoulder, side, hip, leg flush with your own. He’s still only for a moment though, jumping back up as he grumbles about his bubblegum, kicking a stray shoe out of his way as he searches for it.

You watch him as he goes, digging through his pockets, checking under clothes, searching his bed. He really is oblivious to you, isn’t he. He seriously thinks you’re normal. He thinks he’s safe, that he can trust you. That you’re not perpetually imagining him whispering your name in your ear as he curls his body around yours and slides with you, moving to your rhythm and returning your kisses. That above all else, he’s the only thing you want, and you would kill to have him want you back.

This is fucked. He’d be so soft, so nervous, he’d tremble and shake beneath you, grip you tight and let go the moment you moved, watch you with wide, anxious eyes to see what you’d do next. You would kiss him. You would kiss him forever and never stop. You would hold him so close and kiss him so earnestly until he understood how much you truly, genuinely love him. You’d kiss him until he loved you back.

“You seen it?” he asks over his shoulder, straightening up and resting his hands on his hips, blowing his hair back from his nose. You shake your head and stare blankly at your screen. “Fuckin’ starving…”

“Get food,” you say. He huffs and folds his arms.

“Like Bro’s gettin’ me anything,” he mumbles.

You have Chinese take out for dinner. Bro wants to apologise for acting like a dick, and for breaking his gift, and for generally being Bro. He’s transparent as hell when he wants to make something up to you.

It tastes good and makes you feel sick. Dave snatches at your egg rolls with his chopsticks and a stupid grin and it makes you feel sicker. You watch approximately three hours of television, Bro passing out and snoring beside you, Dave sketching a comic on the floor. You keep to yourself and don’t say a word. He yawns and says goodnight at one in the morning, shuffling off to your room, and you don’t reply.

It’s not fair. It’s really, really unfair. You rub your stomach, hugging yourself close as you sink back on the couch. Not for the first time, you wonder if something is wrong with you. Well, obviously there is, but what is it exactly? You’re hardly a psychologist, or psychoanalyst, or whatever the fuck, you don’t know the workings of the human brain that well at all. Put a spanner in your hand and a coding processor in front of you, and you’re golden. But this is too much, it’s too hard, and you can’t figure it out. You can’t figure yourself out.

Maybe you need a break, some time away. If you take a breather then maybe you’ll balance back out, accept it, shake it out, move on. Being cooped up like this can’t be healthy, and its not like you have anything better to do. A bus ride to another state somewhere shouldn’t be too difficult to arrange, Bro could square you up for cash too. You hate borrowing from him, but you figure this is a worthy cause, and you think he’ll understand and agree with you. Breathing space. Yeah. Just a week or something. Just to clear your head out, realign yourself, get back into gear.

You sigh, and force a smile to yourself, your chest feeling just a little lighter as you rise from the couch, tugging the blanket hanging from the back down over Bro’s shoulders, not that he needs it with the heat still poisoning the air.

You’re not so bad, you figure, as you step carefully down the dark hall. You’ll be fine when you can get away. Change of scenery and all that, right?

Your bedroom door creaks as it opens, but you’re both so used to it that it doesn’t wake him up. And there he is.

There he fucking is. Passed out already, half naked, sweating lightly.

“Why are you doing this to me?” you ask out loud, and he doesn’t respond, only frowns and twitches his leg. He’s doing it on purpose, you think. He’s figured it out and he’s trying to call you on it, goad you into admitting it. Maybe he wants to catch you acting on it, tease you until you can’t resist any more and then pretend to wake up and laugh at you, call you everything thing that you are. Disgusting, fucked up, evil, spineless, pointless, worthless.

You stand by his bed, loom over his body like a murderer admiring their handiwork. You feel like one. You feel like you’re killing him already, slow as possible, dragging out his torture, spilling your own into the mix and revelling in it. Your hands tremble, but you knew they would. One reaches out. It almost touches him.

You try again, your brain switching to autopilot since it clearly wants nothing to do with you. A finger lands, light as feather, on his ribs. You are frozen in place, and you only step back when he makes a tiny noise and rolls over, presenting his back to you, legs tangling about his sheets uselessly. You can see the curve of his ass, his boxers wound tight and slipping down a little, top leg drawn up to open him even more. You touch him there as well, trace a finger gently along the small of his back. This is awful.

You stumble backwards, careful of your noise as you fall back on your own bed, staring at him from across the room. Your chest is in agony, heart in a flurry, lungs furious as you try to calm yourself down. You tug your jeans down, kick them off, grasp your dick through your underwear, biting your tongue to hide the hiss of relief that courses through you at the touch. You’re hard as anything, overheating, perhaps you’re malfunctioning, who knows, and the first few strokes are glorious. You push your hand down, grip yourself firmly, skin on skin, and how fucking beautiful his skin is. It glows at you across the room, his back sleek and clean and unblemished, not a scar or freckle, a modest plain of silky skin that beckons you to mark and tear and bite and stain. You want to write your name on it with your tongue, kiss every bump and curve and angle on him, feel him cry out beneath you as you take his cock in your mouth and see the panic in his eyes when he realises how good you make him feel.

You tip back, keeping your eyes on him as you stroke harder, faster, shoving your free hand in your mouth, biting at your fist as your vision blurs and your head spins through each hyperventilation, but still he remains. You can see him, clear as day, his legs waiting for you to stroke up and pull them open, his arms dying to embrace you, the little indents on his back calling for your tongue. You’d do all that and more to him. You’d hold him open and stare, watch each twitch and shiver of his body as he waits, begs for you to take him. Fuck me, Dirk, he’d say. Please fuck me, I need you, I need you so much, I love you so much, please Dirk!

You come with a strangled noise that refuses to be bitten down, though you manage to reign it in just a little. Your heart is hammering, you can see stars, and the only thing you can feel through your sweet euphoria is a cold, dark bitterness that slithers through and asphyxiates you, clogs your throat with guilt and disbelief.

You did it. You really, actually did it. He’s right here in the room. You watched him the entire time. If he’d woken up, you wouldn’t have stopped.

You wipe your hand on the inside of your boxers and fall back rolling over immediately. You don’t care how gross it feels, you deserve it. You are gross. You’re despicable.

After around five hours you sit up. The sun is rising steadily. And lo and behold, there he is. The man across the street. Seems like he had a pretty terrible night, too.

Dave snoozes on, wonderfully incognizant. The man takes his seat, flicks the tv on, cracks open his first can of the day.

You need to get out of here.


	3. Take a Breath and Think

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cut a chapter in half, so this is only a short thing.

You're still here.

Partially because you didn't know where the fuck to go, part because you fucking hate buses. Plus you haven't been able to work up the nerve to text Bro and ask him for a hand out. He's been out of town for the last few days, some big bullshit porn convention that you practically begged him to take you to, but he refused out right. He thought you were acting like an idiot and told you to call him only if you were on fire, no other reasons. He had it all wrong.

You didn't want to go for the dildos and actors and free lube.

You wanted to go to get the fuck out of this fucking _situation_.

Dave is bored as shit, and it's close to eight hundred asshole degrees outside. He's barely left your side, much less the apartment. Each time you ask him why garners no real reply, only bullshit quips of 'can't be bothered goin' out' or 'whatever, I'm bored'. This is the exact opposite of what you wanted, what you need. You need space, not a fucking desperately clingy younger brother. Who you're in love with.

Jesus tit-fucking Christ, you can't catch a break anywhere, can you.

He's sitting with his back pressed against your shoulder, head curled down, hunched over his crappy sketchbook as he scribbles and you watch tv.

“Don't you have school or something?” you ask, head resting back against the cushion, your eyes bleary from a lack of sleep and concentration. He shrugs, and you can feel the bones in his shoulders as they move against you.

“Vacation,” he says shortly, apparently thinking this is all the explanation he needs to give. You frown, lifting your head to look down at him.

“Some summer you're havin', huh? Locking yourself up with me?”

“Can't be bothered goin' out,” he replies like a reflex, the words monotonous and stale in his mouth and they tug at your every nerve, irritating you further and further. You haven't figured out his game here yet, but when you do, he's fucking in for it.

“Fuck this,” you grumble, standing and letting him fall backwards. He stares at you, wide eyed as you walk around the couch to the door, scrambling to sit up as you make to leave.

“Fuck what?” he asks, and for a moment he looks close to crying. Almost. He wouldn't, but still. What the fuck.

“Goin' for a shower,” you say, frowning at him again as he keeps his eyes on you, stock still in place, fingers curled over the back of the futon. “What?” you say, when he says nothing, “you wanna join me or something?”

Good one. You almost want to pat yourself on the back.

He stares, you stare back. He's making you antsy, sitting like a statue. He blinks and you almost jump.

“You okay, man?” you find yourself asking. He nods, once, curt, a little frown dusting his brow. “What's up?”

“What's wrong with you?” he asks.

You feel something inside you sinking, your soul bleaching and dissolving to leave you dizzy behind the eyes for a moment. He knows. He fucking knows. He's figured you out. He knows.

You're dead.

“Nothin', bro, why?” You hear yourself talking but you don't feel it. You're floating somewhere outside the window, looking in at yourself as you fail completely at nonchalance. Your feet shift, you make to push a hand in your pocket and miss. His eyes watch each twitch and shrug, each time you pretend to take a breath because your lungs can't handle the pressure. He is a cats eye peeking through your mouse hole in the skirting board. You are out of ideas.

“I need to fix you,” he says, and you'd laugh if you could, you really would. You would clench your guts, grip your heart, let your knees buckle beneath you as you roar to the sky and tremble in jubilation. You would pull him tight, close, giggle in his ear as he strokes your hair and murmurs you calm, holds you until you are a still, shaking, heaving mess in his arms. You would cry, let him see your face as you cough and wheeze, spit and sniff and curse, scream every single thing that hurts and censor nothing from him. You would let him see the monster you know yourself to be. You would have him end you.

Tell him, you think. Admit it. Die.

Die.

You could have your sword in your hand in a heartbeat. The window is less than half a jump away, the ground much further than that, and the cars faster than the blood in your veins.

“I want to help,” he says.

“It ain't your fight,” you tell him. You think you do, anyway.

He pretends to accept the answer, nodding a little and looking away. You know he won't give up. He used to give Bro the same look when warned to stay away from the 'bad channels' on pay-per-view.

You leave the room. You close the door, walk down the hall, enter the bathroom. You close the door. Lock it.

You have reached a haven, and you feel a breakdown coming on but you'll ignore it for now. Getting the shower to a reasonable temperature is much more important, after all.

You strip, abandoning your usual fastidious precision with how you fold and store your clothes, letting them flop and pool on the floor to sweat and wrinkle. They don't matter. Nothing really does.

Look in the mirror and tell yourself you're a piece of shit.

“You're a piece of shit,” your reflection informs you. Like you didn't know that already. Asshole.

The water is a kiss, a balm to a wound so deep, so infected that it merely stings and does nothing to impede further corruption. It does nothing for your sins, but that doesn't stop you from lingering for roughly three hours.

In that time, you listen. Your eyes are transfixed on a crack in the tile, just about level with your chest, your arms straining with how tight your fists are clenched, legs quaking gently under the force of your stance. You are tense, and you listen.

You hear him moving, follow his feet as he passes the door to your room. He is silent for approximately forty two minutes before moving again, walking back to the living room, with a break.

He pauses outside the bathroom door.

A part of you jolts, perhaps its your heart, and your lungs shift to its staccato, hitching just a touch as your mind floods worryingly easily. You wish, more than ever, that you were artificial. Perhaps then you wouldn't be so easily affected by such meaningless things.

He stops. You freeze, your brain singing with sweet what-ifs, as if you could ever possibly imagine him pressing against the door, stroking the handle and wishing he could enter, that you would turn and accept him as he pushes against you, clothes soaking through as he kisses you with a sigh. He would vibrate melodies of how desperately he wants you, has always wanted you, tell you the secrets he keeps. Of how he watches when you aren't looking, how he clings to your every word, follows your every motion, thinks of you when nothing else is there to distract him.

How he wishes you felt the same. How much it hurts.

How if only you understood.

He moves from the door, and you aren't sure when the tears started, but they don't stop until you are finally prepared to rejoin the real world. Your throat burns horribly, your lungs jagged and scarred from each shard of thick, uncomfortable air you have dragged in, scratches glowing deep in your arms and chest from where you have clawed at yourself to force an unexpected reboot. Humans are so strange, and bodies are so very useless.

You towel yourself gently, leaning against the wall, sticky with condensation, stroking across your legs, your stomach, careful and kind, as if you understand how fragile you really are.

“I hate you,” your reflection chirps, and you glare at him in response. “You should go take a trip off the roof.”

You are inclined to agree.


	4. Disconnect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while :/
> 
> This chapter is EXTREMELY suicide/depression heavy, please don't read if you're already a little fragile.

Some things are not solved as easily as the Sunday morning sudoku puzzle in the local paper, and its for this reason, and this reason alone, that you are rather inclined to kill yourself at some point today.

 

“You done? The fuck, man, you've been in there for like two hours already!”

 

“Gimme a sec.”

 

“You said that eight thousand seconds ago, shit-wad!”

 

Okay, maybe bleeding out isn't the way you're meant to go, never mind. You've been staring at the razor for fuck knows how long, you haven't even made a move towards it yet. Whatever, you've got the whole day ahead of you. Just take another trip up to the roof, take another look around. You might find the right angle to fall from.

 

Your back hurts, discs sliding uncomfortably in your spine as you stand and stretch, and your hand doesn't even tremble with anxiety as you throw the door open and almost shove Dave right over onto the floor with the force of your stomp as you leave the bathroom. You don't look at his face, you cant. You haven't been able to for as long as you haven't been able to sleep.

 

Your mental calender ticks slowly, clearly on the precipice of a malfunction, but working for the moment. Sixteen days and counting, almost impressive if it weren't tearing your entire social construct apart. Sure, you don't matter, but Dave's starting school again soon and hoo boy. Wow, this is gonna be a tough year for the little guy.

 

Little. As if he isn't a mere three inches shorter than you. Maybe its four, you haven't checked in a while. Skinnier than you, though. Maybe that counts for something.

 

“watch it...” you hear him grumble behind you, and if you possessed the ability to feel guilty any more, you would. As it stands, you are apparently so full of guilt, so overflowing with self hatred and disgust, so awash with desperation, that you are entirely numb. Catatonic, perhaps. Its actually pretty fucking terrifying. You're not used to feeling so much all at once. Your minds pretty much shut down already; you haven't touched a blue print or a bolt in weeks. Bro has commandeered one of your more favoured screwdrivers as a back scratcher and you haven't put up a single protest.

 

And yet, in the midst of the thick, black sludge of your depression, there he remains. A single island, solitary but entirely at peace. He could rule the world one day, he's more than capable. He deserves so much more than you, than Bro. He deserves a family, and you hope he finds one some day.

 

You don't apologise, just trudge your way out to the stairwell, back up to the roof, light a cigarette and sit down on the edge, concrete cutting into the backs of your thighs. You'll stay here for a few hours, you figure. Then maybe you'll throw yourself off. It might even be kinda fun.

 

“I'm fuckin' sick of this,” you hear behind you, and you get a tiny crick in your neck as you turn to see Dave kicking the door shut behind him, stuffing his hands in his pockets and scowling as he shuffles over to you, punching your shoulder as he takes a seat and, surprisingly, steals the cigarette from your lips to take a drag for himself. You almost voice a complaint, a warning, those things'll make your dick fall off, so don't start, but who are you to talk? You're about to throw yourself off a damn building; that can't be too good for your health either.

 

“Excuse me?” Your voice is weak and cracked, and you wince internally at the flat look on his face, but thankfully he doesn't mention it. You can't really remember the last time you had a conversation that wasn't staged entirely inside your head.

 

“yeah, I'll excuse you, ill excuse the fuckin shit out of you, asshole,” he snaps, glaring past his shades and actually making you feel a little ashamed. “I dunno what I've done but you better tell me right now or...or, something, I dunno, but ill think of something. So tell me.”

 

Classic.

 

Of course he thinks its his fault; he's a Strider. He was raised the same way you were, hell, he was half raised _by_ you, of course he's going to have adopted all your shitty internalising tendencies. Bro never exactly helped in that department either, but then again, he never really helped much anyway. That's probably one of the things he blames himself for; letting the two of you down and being such an obviously shitty parental substitute.

 

“Ain't your fault, forget it.” You want it to end here and now. You want him to forget, literally forget about you and everything you've ever done and said. You want him to never have known of your existence. Shit, you totally should have taken up hypnotism instead of engineering...

 

“Shut up. Tell me what it is.” He's demanding, obviously found a backbone somewhere, and its actually quite impressive. There's a strange swell of pride in your gut that makes you feel a little sick, but you squash it quickly without consequence.

 

“No. I don't have to. It's my shit and I'm dealing with it my way.”

 

“Your way sucks ass, you've been living in hell for fucking ever,” he frowns, flicking the cigarette away without offering it back. You pull another from the packet and light it with a roll of your eyes. “I'm serious. You barely move, you don't talk, you don't do anything. There's all these stupid walls around you and I think you're putting them up so we won't see how bad you're feeling but its trapping you inside and making you feel worse.”

 

“Jesus Christ, you've been talking to that Lalonde girl, haven't you, Roxy's sister.” There's a sight hint of amusement in your voice, but of course he doesn't pick up on it, he's too upset.

 

Shit. He's really upset. Fuck. Fuck shit fuck, you've fucked up.

 

“L-look, I'm sorry-”

 

“No, you look.” He interrupts you, and it obviously surprises the both of you because he shuts himself up with a wide eyed blink, staring at you for a moment before looking away, across the skyline. “Just..I dunno what I can do. I probably can't do anything but whatever. Bro's useless but he's got cash, you can get some trillionaire therapist or somethin'. Start making weird dumb robots again. Fuckin' eat shitty Chinese food with me and force me to watch creepy anime with you. I'll do it. I just want you back. It sucks without you.”

 

There's a sting in the back of your throat, you can hear your heartbeat in your ears, and your body is almost vibrating with nervous energy and anticipation.

 

This is it, isn't it. This is when you jump, you know it is.

 

The sidewalk is a snake a mile under your toes, ants crawling all over it, some of them probably suicidal too. You're willing to bet none of them are in love with their brothers, though. Decent odds, you figure, you should have taken on Vegas as one last blow out before shuffling off the mortal coil, try and leave behind a few nice fat stacks for him, a college fund at least.

 

Who are you kidding, you were born to lose.

 

“Say something.”

 

“Uh.” Yeah, you sound dumb, but it's never bothered you less than right now. He can think whatever he wants about you. He's about to hate you for the rest of his life anyway so who gives a shit. Should you say goodbye? Nah, too normal. Maybe a meme. Or some obscure reference that would puzzle him for years, that'd be kinda cool. Maybe just full on Lion King this shit. 'Remember who you are' or some bullshit.

 

“Fucking say something!”

 

Okay, he's getting hysterical and you can't move. Your body is frozen and limp all at once, it's a strange feeling but you suppose it makes sense. Your veins are filled with electricity, anxiety vibrating between your bones, and above it all a veil of calm drifting over you, shrouding and securing you all at once. It's nice. It's the most peaceful you've felt in a long time.

 

His hand is on your shoulder, shaking you, his voice fading slowly but you know he's shouting your name. You can see his shoes, feet dangling over the edge of the roof, red converse scuffed and stained and faded, ill matched laces, a hole at the back of the ankle patched up by your own hands. You can see him when he was six years old, wearing one of your t shirts as Bro teaches him to swim at the local pool, his tiny head popping up from a huge cloud of black fabric and crystalline blue, face bright red because he thinks he has to hold his breath the entire time. You laugh. He always made you laugh, he was such a weird kid.

 

He used to be so happy.

 

“C'mon, please. Please don't do this.”

 

Something in his voice brings you back, your body jolting slightly once you notice how far forward you're leaning over the edge, his hands white from holding onto the back of your shirt so tight. Well, damn.

 

“Please, Dirk, come on just...just listen.” He doesn't say anything else, obviously as lost as you at this moment, poor kid. You kind of wish you could make him just be okay with it.

 

“Dave.” Holy shit, your voice sounds rough as hell, and it's only now that you notice the sharp breeze on your face, skin wet with tears. You don't remember crying, certainly not as hysterically as you must have been for your throat to burn this badly. You try again, jaw numb as you try to force it into position, your eyes hazing over and rolling slightly in your head. “Dave, just...I can't fuckin' do this anymore.”

 

You don't expect the tremor that rips through you. You don't expect the veil to be torn from you, leaving your bones bare and nerves exposed. It was supposed to stay, to tighten, to asphyxiate you and reassure you that it would be over so, so soon. It was supposed to push you, let you finally shut down. What a sweet release indeed.

 

But it's only now, now that you're on your back in the middle of the gravelly roof, your head cradled in his lap as you weep and scream and claw at yourself like an infant, that you realise that perhaps it wasn't the right time. You weren't ready just yet. There's still a gossamer thread of hope somewhere, and now is the time to find it and either nurture it or sever it entirely.

 

How destructive would you like to be? How much more do you think you can endure? Weeks, months?

 

He won't stay forever. He's going to rule the world, and he'll probably hate you for one reason or another by the time he does.

 

Tick-tock, whizz-kid, its make-your-mind-up time. But maybe...perhaps his hand pressing to your forehead is just enough for right now. The way he angles his head to keep the sun from your eyes. Sure, you can feel his fear, his devastation, the heat of his tears as they splash onto your cheek. Maybe this is just enough.

 

Maybe you can last another hour like this.

 


	5. Eject

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been real, you guys. Thanks for a great 7 years in homosuck, god help us all <3

“I fuckin' hate this...”

“I know, Jesus. 'S the sixth time you said it in like an hour,” you grumble, and he flicks the tip of your nose indignantly.

“It's true though.”

You suppose he's right.

He hasn't let go of you since the roof. He dragged you downstairs of his own volition, your head bumping awkwardly against the wall every so often, making him sigh and laugh quietly. He wrapped you up in your own bed, swaddled in every blanket he could find, a nest of pillows surrounding you. There's an untouched bowl of rice crackers on the desk from when he thought he could feed you in your suspended state. Needless to say, it didn't work. But he seems to be doing just fine.

At a lack of any other solutions, he has abandoned his inner hang ups and awkward teen introversion and has embraced you. He's curled around you like a cat, holding you up at the same time as holding you down, his body still tense with caution, but his fingertips are so incredibly soft as they stroke your hair back from your eyes. You have no doubts that this is surely what death feels like; peace, warmth, a steady heartbeat that doesn't quite match up with your own. He's surprisingly gentle with you. You wonder how you never noticed this before.

His motions probably aren't as deliberate as they feel, but his palm is cool against your forehead, and you can hear his heart as it throbs beside your ear, and its almost overwhelmingly soothing, like he's keeping you in stasis. Allowing you a few extra years to decompress and regroup. It's absolute bliss, if you're being honest. It's about time you were.

You belong in his arms, you're sure of it now. All that pining and daydreaming before, mere speculation. This is scientific proof, this is a fact, an absolute. You were made for each other.

You haven't eaten in a few days, slept even less than that, but you think your mind is clear enough for the moment, and you're positive you can see the blatant affection in his eyes when you look up at him. Fuck it.

“I love you?”

You're not sure why it came out as a question. Neither does he, apparently.

“Was...was that, like, in doubt or something?” He frowns at you, and your head gets a little cloudy, eyes heavy, and its with a strangely unsatisfying sense of relief that you finally succumb to your physical exhaustion and pass out.

 

When you wake up the first thing you see is his back, beautifully bare and each freckle standing out like a constellation. You're on your side, facing the room, he's changing after a shower, water dripping over his skin, damp hair clinging to him pathetically. He feels your stare and turns around, rubbing his eye with a frown before a heartbreaking grin spreads onto his face.

“Mornin' dicknuts, sleep well? Bro's gone out, I think he'll be out all weekend, he took the truck so whatever. But, yo, I'm gonna do pizza and movie and you're coming 'cause I can't cook and you gotta eat and also shower 'cause you smell like a paper bag full of decomposing dicks which is so fucking unappealing, I can't begin to tell you.”

You can only follow half of what he's saying, but he isn't angry or scared or bitter at you so whatever, count it as a win.

You should probably respond either way. For some reason the only thing you can think to say to him is “Ben Affleck hates freedom.”

“That's a lie. Ben Affleck loves freedom so much he wants to go to jail just so he can have a conjugal visit with it.”

 

It's three A.M. Your eyes feel like they might fall out but you are so, so damn close to beating this stupid fucking level so you just put sleep off for another hour, no big.

The instant your fucking asshole of a character slays the boss, you throw the controller down in victory, your lips cracking painfully as you grin wider than ever, and you shove a cold pizza crust into your mouth to celebrate. He is curled up beside you, his back to the room, practically being swallowed alive by the pillows surrounding him, but he looks up as you allow yourself a smug laugh, eyes dull with fatigue and squinting in the dark.

“Win?”

“Sure did.”

“Cool, so shut up.”

You feel a little giddy. Things are too good right now, it has to end at some point, right? He stretches with a groan, settling onto his back, and you flash back to that night all those weeks ago. Except the oppressive heat is gone, replaced with a comfortably familiar warmth, his eyes blinking heavily as he tries to stay awake.

“Come here.”

You're not sure who said it, maybe neither of you did, but his arms are welcoming all the same, and the curve of his shoulder was sculpted for your chin. His legs are open, either side of your body, but there's no desperate rush within you, no incendiary desire clawing through to ruin the moment.

And in the back of your mind there's an itching little notion that maybe this was all you ever needed.

I love you. I'm actually in love with you, I don't think I can live without you so I tried to escape to protect you. You deserve so much more than this.

You try to press each word into his skin wherever you touch him, your fingers leaving pale little marks on his arm, his chest flushed with the heat of two hearts, and even so you don't expect him to understand. Even now as his hand threads gently through your hair and holds you close, a sweet, rumbling yawn starting in the base of his throat and vibrating across your cheek. As dissatisfied as you are in your current situation, perhaps you can live with this alone. A silent acceptance, a pulse other than your own, his tiny, sleepy shivers and the way his hand grips loosely at the back of your shirt as he falls asleep under you. Perhaps this is enough.

It's not, but its an appealing idea.

Your plot has been stagnant for so long now. Your arc felt ready to end though it had only barely begun. You've been trapped in your own design and you have rotted from the inside out. You are so, so fucking tired. This feels like a chapter turned, you can practically feel the frilly title header embossed into this fresh new page. It's comforting to know that this isn't really the end.

Maybe you'll find another reason to hate yourself in the future, maybe it will be the same reason yet again. Maybe you are completely fine now and you'll never feel anything but mild bliss for the rest of your life. You doubt that last one very much, but playing Schrödinger with your immediate future is relief enough for the moment.

His eyelashes flutter against your cheek. When you look down at him in the dusky dark room, he is sunshine.

Things are gonna be just fine.


End file.
